Airports
by Booth's Smurfette
Summary: Still the same as before, I just fixed some mistakes. Just a little something I threw together. It's a little abstract but I wrote it in an abstract-writing mood.


Airports. You can sit in one spot for just a few minutes and watch all different types of people going about their business. You can tell what type of person they are by the way they make their way through the terminal. The businessman you see running to catch the 9:30 flight with a frantic look on his face, carrying a simple but expensive looking black, leather briefcase, is on his way to a corporate meeting, possibly to seal a multi-million dollar deal. Then, the other professional looking man, a slight smile on his face, overnight bag in hand, calmly walking towards the futuristic doors outside to the taxi rank, is on his way home – possibly to a loving wife and children or to a loving mistress. Or maybe he is just happy that his flight arrived early.

Next, you notice a forlorn looking woman carrying a battered carpetbag with a faded rose-looking floral pattern. She's shuffling through the terminal, ignoring the perplexed stares she's receiving. She doesn't seem to notice that the laces of her sneakers are undone, millimetres away from tripping her up; her skirt hem is in tatters and her sixth-hand jumper is hanging off her shoulders. Suddenly, she changes her course and begins heading towards you. Thankfully, instead of calling you out on your people watching, she settles down in the seat next to you and a small mushroom-cloud of suffocating air surrounds you. A mixture of aeroplane, stale milk, dirt and a slightly familiar brand of baby powder. After acclimatising to the peculiar perfume, you notice that she has begun snoring. Slow, nasal, loud snores.

Turning away from her, a slightly oversized man wanders into your line of sight. Chomping on a hamburger, smearing tomato sauce and mustard around his mouth. Looking away from his eating you focus on his clothing. It is obviously fitted for a slightly leaner man. His black hair is peppered lightly with gray, despite his face displaying a much younger man. He turns to look at the departures board and the sag in his shoulders of someone who has given up all hope is particularly prominent. What is he story? You wonder. A recently divorced man, off to tell his family the news? A widower, off to visit his dearly departed's parents? Stalking towards the bin, he throws out the remainder of his hamburger with a determined look on his face. Watching him make his way towards Gate 9, you suddenly remember why you were at the airport. You like airports. Standing up, nodding goodbye to the still sleeping woman, you walk towards the arrivals lounge. On the way there, you pass Gate 3, which is crowded with unhappy, unsatisfied passengers. The 10:45 flight has been delayed indefinitely. An unfamiliar feeling of sympathy flares up, albeit briefly. Reaching your destination, a sudden wave of memories comes crashing down. You remember the last time you were here. You remember the last time he was here. You remember why. You remember why you were both here. Looking around at the hundreds of faces – some happy; some relieved; other hopeful, you remember that once upon a time you were one of those faces. Why were you even at the airport, you ask yourself. To remember.

At first, the arriving passengers trickle out one by one. You wait a few more seconds, staring at the doors, anticipating, knowing what is going to happen. People soon are rushing out, pushing each other out of the way in order to locate loved ones. Suddenly, all around are the sounds of hugs, laughter, tears and somewhere in the midst of all the commotion you here a little girl calling for her father. Swivelling your body to witness the welcoming you see a man, in uniform, running, and picking the girl up and spinning her around. The wife stands on watching with loving eyes. She then approaches her husband to welcome him home in her way. You look away, knowing that this is one of those private public moments. You know this from experience. The family enters your peripheral vision, holding hands and smiling. You remember taking those exact steps. The last of the arrivals dribble out and the remaining welcoming parties disperse. The airport's staff closes the doors to the arrival gates, confirming what you already knew. He won't be arriving again. He's gone. Him, his uniform, your family. Gone. Gone in the single sound of a bullet. Feeling your eyes prickle with tears you turn away and begin walking out of the airport.


End file.
